#not to be THAT person but canonly Henry should have had a donald duck night light his first year at Juniper Hill

[henrybcwer]

Good Riddance

A/N: I deleted the request on accident but the main jest is that the Bowers gang looks after Henry and gives him things he needs without being obvious about it. I tried doing this in Stephen King’s style but I’m not sure if it worked. Also this fic mixes canon from the movie and novel so keep that in mind.

His home is overtaken by a mosaic of pulsating blue and red lights and a crowd of people that didn’t belong. Henry could see them a mile away and hear them half a mile. In his foggy mind he tells himself to stop, turn around and get the hell out of Derry; there was nothing for him now. Yet his body keeps moving on its own, craving to be anywhere that wasn’t in the dark. The moment he, a patch of vile stenches and discoloration, steps within the police’s line of sight, they tackle him to the ground with enough excessive force to keep a man twice his size subdued.

They surround him in the integration room; five to seven officers all tall meaty men with an axe to grind. He’s quiet, almost could be described as timid, never looking any of the looming figures in the eyes, and he supposes that’s what pisses them off most. The Chief of Police slaps him across the face, startling him to the point of yelping. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, son!” The Chief demands.

It takes the stinging of a second slap for Henry to obey, vacant eyes that mourn the loss of—everything, slow rise to meet black eyes, and for a moment, Henry got a glimpse of what the Losers club had been forced to witness throughout each of their encounters over the summer; the blazing eyes of a cold man.

“We know you killed em. We got the evidence to prove you did it.” Chief Brandon bluffs. “We found the books in your closet that belonged to Reginald Huggins and Victor Criss. Think how their mothers must be feeling. My

Derry High School/ 4th period lunch … mom made extra.” Belch says, holding out a brown sack lunch to Henry. “She forgot she made me lunch last night and made me a second this morning.” That was a lie. Belch always made his lunch the night before, since both he and his mom had early morning shifts with barely enough time to get up and get dress. Last night Blech decided to prepare an extra lunch for Henry after the Bowers boy came to school with beans in a small Tupperware for the fourth time that week.  It had been a while since all three of them were able to eat lunch together since Henry was a grade behind them. So much so, that Belch and Vic had forgotten that Henry’s diet consisted 94% out of beans his old man’s girlfriend brought over. A large, obvious part of them knew that Henry must have been sick of the stuff; he would eat only one or two spoonfuls per lunch, and then dumped the rest in the trash. Of course, Henry’s pride would keep him from accepting anything he deemed as a handout, hence the lie.

It wasn’t a subtle lie, lucky for him Henry wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shied. “Your moms goin’ senile.” Henry jokes, taking the bag.

Victor does catch on however, and pawns in his Twix bar. “I already ate one this morning,” he lies.

“Jackpot!” Henry snatches the candy off the table before Victor could invoke a take back, still oblivious to their motives. Twix only happen to be Henry second favorite candy, right after Juicy Fruit gum, so to him it didn’t matter why Victor was parting with it as long as it was going to him.

Add in Patrick’s mandatory milk from the cafeteria line and Henry had enough to constitute as a balance lunch.

The potluck lunch continues into the following week. Soon enough time passes that it becomes the norm, with each of the boys either bringing from home or taking their classmates’ lunch. One day around the middle of the school year, Belch pins down one of the losers, Richie Tozier, to the wall with his arm. He had only planned on taking the kid’s lunch until Richie open his fat mouth to make some poorly thought out joke about Belch’s mom. In an instant Belch draws his fist back and

Police Integration Room/ 2:14 am knocks the wind out of his lungs. Henry hunches over in a coughing fit, clutching his stomach. A sluggish stream of red starts adds new color to his already messed up face. He had taken quite the fall down that well, chipping one of his canines and breaking his nose against the old stone and bricks, after running from his gang and getting into a wrestling match with Mike.  The man who punched him in the gut, a detective by the name Lottman, tells him to stop zoning out and fess up.

“We know you did it.” Lottman says. “You know you did it. Those people out there know it’s true too. So just admit it. Admit

Kansas Street/1:34 pm it!” Patrick shouts, pointing an accusing finger down at Henry. “You’re a cheater!”

“No I ain’t!” Henry stands up, tossing his cards on the ground in a similar fashion to what Patrick did seconds ago.

“No deck has five aces.”

“This one does.”

Patrick makes a face, one of indifference and annoyance, the kind of face that says, yeaah sureeeeee. He could deliver Henry irrefutable evidence that clearly states what Henry did was cheating and the boy would deny it venomously.

“Hand over the belt, Hockstetter.” Henry stretches his arm out, vigorously opening and closing his hand, gauging Patrick’s lack of a comeback as a victory for himself. Patrick makes somewhat of a display rolling his eyes, looking down at Henry’s own belt. Calling it worn out would be an understatement. The leather had become brittle, faded, and stained in the light, the holes where the hook went through have stretched with age creating long noodle like holes that did little to keep the belt tight around his waist. Some of the holes merged together and the seams have started the process of coming apart and fraying. It was a wonder Henry wore a belt at all. His was utterly useless.

Removing his belt and folding it, Patrick reaches out to hand it over to Henry, who by this point is absolutely giddy. But he stops midway, tugging back from Henry’s hand, relishing in the sudden twist in Henry’s expression. “Admit you cheated.”

“I didn’t.” Henry grits.

Patrick raises a brow, slowly bringing the belt closer towards himself.

“Fine!” Henry bellows, stomping his foot down. “I admit it. I

Police Integration Room/2:27 am did it.” Henry whispers face cast down.

“You did?” Lottman asks, a mixture of relief and surprise peppering his expression.

“Yes.” Henry says.

“Do you confess to killing your father?”

“Yes.”

“Do you confess to killing Patrick Hockstetter?”

“Yes.”

“Do you confess to killing Reginald Huggins and Victor Criss?”

“Yes.”

Veronica too. The police never asks how and for that he’s grateful, not sure if he could even think of a plausible explanation that would satisfy them. He could never tell them the truth. The horrors he witness. Only those who’ve had a first person encounter with—that thing could understand. No one else could ever have an accurate conception of the intangible power it possesses over the town and its people.

His trial was a long and drawn out. The police had over exaggerated how much ‘damning’ evidence they had on him, no surprise to Henry, and the District Attorney was only able to get him convicted of murdering his father. Not for a lack of effort mind you, the District Attorney pulled all the stops, calling upon witness after witness to testify to Henry’s character. Three of them were the mothers of his friends: Belch, Victor, and Patrick. Their testimonies were painful to listen, striking chord after chord, playing a haunting melody within the hollow emptiness of his being.

He’s remanded to the care of the Augusta State Mental Hospital during the trial and the following nineteen years afterwards. Often restrained physically and chemically, he saw the facility as a sort of purgatory, one that did not lead to heaven but another layer of hell; Juniper Hill.

On his first night at Juniper Hill the staff straps him to a gurney and preps him for shock therapy. They drug him with succinylcholine, a muscle relaxant to keep him from convulsing, but does little to spare him the terrifying feeling of suffocation that comes as a side effect. The initial pain comes in brief pulses but the searing sting lingers throughout the night. By the end Henry’s in a daze of confusion, droopy eyes wander the room with no recollection of how he got there or why. It was a very lonely experience.

Months peel off the calendar and his shock therapy increases to three times a week. For the most part everything’s the same. Same muscle relaxant, same terrifying feeling of suffocation, same searing sting that lingers, and same lonely experience. The only real change is in Henry. He stops fighting the staff when they take him to his treatments so they let him ride in a wheelchair without restraints. It’s a small thing, asinine really, but it gives him a sense—however misguided—that he still had some control over his life, that he was no longer confined and sedated and force to watch others make decisions for him.

His chest is heaving and his pale face is streaked with tears, a common occurrence during his treatments. His eyes are barely open and he makes not a single move to sit up. The staff comes for him, positioning him back in his wheelchair and wheels him to his cot. They tuck him into bed and he instinctively rolls over to his side, staring at his nightlight intently. Winnie the Pooh holds his honey pot close to his chest and glows softly, emitting a comfort in addition to its light. If Henry squints juuuust right, he could morph the yellow bear into something that crudely resembles Belch carrying something…someone.

The Kissing Bridge /5:00 pm “That was fucking crazy, man!” Victor laughs, playfully punching Henry in the shoulder.

“Didn’t think you had it in you.” Patrick admits.

“I did.” Belch boasts being one of the few, if not only, people in constant awe of what Henry could do.

“Suck up.” Patrick adds.

Henry, with arms cross, shrugs his shoulders, leaning into Belch’s chest. Their praise overtakes any pain in his mangled leg and elicits a proud grin from the teen. “It’s nothing. I ain’t no chicken.” Now he had the injuries to prove it.  The nearly white skin of his leg begins to blossom with purple and yellow beneath the river of red oozing from a half crescent gash on his upper calf and a stiff, warm numbing pain has settled all the way to his foot.

The boys were playing chicken in the middle of the road with oncoming cars. The goal was simple, run to the other side of the road just when a car comes rushing by. They had picked a one way street, not completely daft, and took turns freighting drivers and themselves alike. Ironically, as their leader Henry had the least and most to prove all at once; therefore he was the most reckless out of the bunch, taking on the more dangerous stunts. His luck—and the game—ended when a car narrowly runs him over, clipping his right leg and causing the teen to tumble down in writhing pain as he screams bloody Mary. His friends recoil in unison, then rush to his aid, quick to pull him out of road.

Simultaneously they try to help him, touching and prodding and pushing up against his leg. Henry shoves them off all him. “GET OFF ME!” he bellows, his eyes were water glazed and the familiar pain of a broken bone throbs loudly in his ear and leg. Five seconds later he gets on to them for not helping him up. They scramble for the best position. Victor on Henry’s left and Patrick on Henry’s right, hoisting him up by the hips with Henry’s arms slung around each of their shoulders. Through team work, Henry’s able to stand, his bad leg dangling an inch off the ground. Together: Henry, Victor, and Patrick, try to maneuver down the narrow slope of the hill but find it a challenge as Henry’s foot unwittingly kept dragging too low and tripping them up. Finally it was decided that Belch would carry Henry bridal style the rest of the way home, a plan Henry vocally veto but was out numbered.  

At one point, Patrick asks “When’s the honeymoon?” and Henry told Belch to walk closer towards the boy so Henry could punch him in the jaw. Belch denies the request, leaving Henry to sulk in his arms.

“You think it’s really broken?” Victor asks, looking down at Henry’s ratty excuse of a leg.

“Probably.” Henry says. “Might need a cast.”

“If you get one, I wanna sign it.” Belch says grinning.

“Me too.” Vic nods.

“Me three.” Patrick smiles, getting caught up in the excitement.

“You all can sign it.” Henry reaffirms them. “Big signatures too. Don’t want no ijit thinking I’m a loser with no friends.”

They all talk over each other, a rambling mess of ideas and opinions on what would look make the cast look the coolest.

The sun sets on the rag tag team of bullies, their silhouettes behind them erasing their differences. All of them blissfully unaware of what violent terrors were awaiting them the following summer as they focus on enjoying the moment, having the time of their lives.